here is a ongoing effort to write.
The fog of the wandering eye engulfed the looking spectacle, reaching out with the hope of finding nourishment. Elaborate battle cries echoed internally, hastening the approach of all too ready wrinkles on the brow. Sweat interlocked with lashes, protecting the optical observational platform. Has this always been happening? A long pipe ran from the control panel to the large glowing box. Metal, concrete, and the smell of stale air filled a long-forgotten part of the factory. This was a job so needed for so long to fulfill an intrinsic connection, now lost to the conclusion of consumerism. A Black Friday veil of importance, overshadowed by the ever-growing shadow of the cruising, destructive breath of incitement.
The sponge given was old and smelled as if it might just be a collection of grime rather than an object to remove anything. More of a smear device. The mop twisted into a screenshot of hair blowing in the wind but stuck in time, like a sock found under a teenager’s bed. This turned any clean soapy water into a soup of crusty mistakes, ready to be painted in an even pattern. These invisible frustrations scoured the narrative. The light, like a damp cloth on the forehead of a wet fish, served little purpose other than to create a heaviness in the environment.
With the frustrations calmed to the frequency of escape, a path illuminated itself as the way through this encumbered state. Work became a release, a self-constructed call to action for the closing of the dam’s holes. The water, a sea of possible information, conflicted with the parallel bars of our cage.
Glad to have the memories of clips as a side window to ease the tax of destructive effort, like a wolf in sheep’s clothing. The thought of insignificance stems from what viewpoint? A stance of meta authority constructed to force a mindset of indifferent desire, blank and ready for the fingers of the human wave of entanglement to play its chords. Or like a hand pushing through a rubber sheet, these distractions pull at the focus and concentration necessary for defragmenting the ethics behind these efforts.
The blue hue of the colored glasses meant to alleviate computer light only compacted the vibe of Picasso’s depressed painting period. Then the effort fell away as actions took hold, the countless times back and forth like a pendulum in time, strengthening the resolve of the constructed environment’s transition from one state to another. Observing from behind over my shoulder, though through my eyes, these thoughts hop up, yawn down, and help to organize a food plan for the down and out mind.
I’ll push one more time, then I’ll pull. The glass now gleams with the chemical shine of countless molecules, ripped from their pattern and forced into a relationship with incomprehensible “Others.” With no self-reference and a long way back, it’s best to just keep on keeping on. Oh, and the socks, misleadingly not the same; looking similar but one a bit longer than the other.
I’m happy to cry as the effort bleeds from my surroundings, drawing an unmoving declaration of truth. Yeah, sure, you can ride the clouds and point at the squares, seeing a net as it captures the fish of information, yelling their way into a room of whispers.
Disputanta, VA: is that a place, or is it a way of taking the land, putting a constructed label on it, and then inside that, the intentions of the observers organized into a framework from necessity to perform a fulfillment to the idea? Or, in other words, the forced construction of an innumerable disorientation, flung with no guide into a management position. Tea tree oil waves from a homeostasis-conducted mic drop.
Yet the floor was clean, but for how long? The job done until the next incursion disrupted the sanctuary of effort. Time rips at the collection of plains, organically seeding new points, constructing lines optimizing observation into an unstatic flow of long pauses and short bursts.
My hands feel the pages as if the words are not there; no ridges of ink can the calluses of my tips muffle any hope of translation. Even if the deformation could be felt, translating it would be inconceivable. So, I take for granted the ease with which these sinuses construct a playtime window for an inconclusive possibility to deflate or expand, dominoing into a decision forcing its presence into a collective story of progress.
The door is red, with a little window almost opaque with metal diamonds, keeping any blast from escaping.